


Fear the Plaid

by Catchclaw



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Cheap Scottish Innuendo, Flimsy Thread of a Plot, Kilts, M/M, Manhandling of Tartan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-15
Updated: 2013-06-15
Packaged: 2017-12-15 02:31:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,733
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/844299
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Catchclaw/pseuds/Catchclaw
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean has to wear a kilt for a case. And his day kinda goes downhill from there.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fear the Plaid

Dean had a terrible day.

It started with skirt and ended with suck, with a whole lot of ass in between.

See, it’d looked like a simple gig, on its face. A wee bit amusing, at least.

Three members of the same Scottish Heritage Clan—”Middle-aged guys in kilts,” Sam translated—had kicked it in under six months in circumstances that were, ok, sorta strange. One felled by a caber—

“They’re tossing fucking _trees_ ,” Dean said, skeptical. “And they’re all out-of-shape old dudes. Of course they’re gonna have a damn coronary.”

—and two others strangled by bagpipes, their own, in the middle of freaking parades.

Sam shook his head. “Ok, the tree guy, maybe, I could buy the heart attack thing. But you saying there’s something inherently deadly about bagpipes? ‘Cause if so, you gotta think they’re doing it wrong.”

Dean didn’t say anything for a couple dozen miles, which he knew Sam would count as a win.

“Look,” he said finally. “We go there, we do this? You’re wearing the goddamn skirt here, Sam.”

But of course the one kilt, the one Highland getup they could find on such short notice didn’t fit. Sam, that is. Hell, he couldn’t even zip the thing over his thighs; when he staggered out of the bathroom, Dean fell back screaming: “My eyes! My eyes!”

Laughed his ass off for a good ten minutes before the reality of the sit hit him full in the face.

“No!” he shouted, batting plaid out of his lap. “No fucking _no_ way, dude!”

It’d been Sam’s idea to put a man on the inside, so to speak. The clan was playing in the Scottish Christmas Walk that Saturday outside of DC—in some town with “Ye Olde” in its name, and while there was no way to fake expert bagpiper on like no notice, the plaid (Sam argued) would allow said man to blend into the crowd, maybe get closer to the action than somebody in trousers might, while the other person scanned the scene. Hung to the edges of the parade route and kept an eye open for weird.

It’s just that, Dean was sure the one in the skirt would be Sam.

“It’s a fucking _kilt_!” Sam shouted for the 75th time, this time through the stupid bathroom door.

Dean glared at himself in the mirror, cursed his goddamn girlish hips, because—

“It fits!” Sam howled, way louder than he had to. “Nice look for you, Britney Spears!”

Dean shoved him and tried not to touch his sporran. “Come on, asshat. Let’s just get this over with.”

Sam leaned back on the bed and leered at him, the little freak. “Sure, sure. Just let me get some pictures first, huh?”

“Ugh,” Dean groaned, tugging on the bonnie blue coat. “Keep it in your pants there, ya perv.”

Which just sent Sam off again.

And he kept up his bullshit commentary, too, all the way down the sidewalk. Goosed Dean twice for no reason and wolf whistled when he bent down to adjust the tassels on his socks. Because they were seriously so not straight.

“I hate you,” Dean hissed, batting Sam’s hands away.

His brother retreated, waving a fucking gleeful smirk. “Hey, it’s not my fault the thing didn’t fit me.”

“It’s not my fault you’re a freaking redwood, dude! Seriously.”

“Look, it’s just for a day, ok?” Sam said, dodging a clump of Boy Scouts in the street. “Not gonna kill you to mix things up a little bit. Wardrobe wise.”

Dean huffed so loud his voice rang out over the crowd. “Says the guy who’s not wearing a skirt.”

“You better quit saying that, Dean. Unless you want to get punched by a legion of Scotsmen.”

Dean gave him the finger and reached down to adjust his dirk. “Fuck you very much.”

“What?” Sam said in this fake-ass innocent way. “I mean, you’re rocking the whole Catholic school girl thing, don’t get me wrong, but—“

“You so owe me for this,” Dean growled. “This here is going straight into the books, Sammy. In fucking permanent ink.”

They turned the corner from West Street onto King, and oh yeah, there were the bagpipes. The whole street was closed off; no cars, no trollies, just dozens of dudes in kilts, all milling around like it was totally normal to be out in public on a Saturday with bare legs and buckles showing.

“I hate you,” Dean sighed again, resigned.

But Sam was already in Nancy Drew mode, sweeping the crowd with floppy-haired sonar.

“So I’ll see you at the waterfront,” he said, over Dean’s head. “Ok? Near that art place—the Torpedo Factory—at the end of the parade route. If you haven’t sniffed it out by then, that is.”

Dean stomped his feet. Made a face. “Yeah, fine. Ok. You better be there, bitch. I’m not walking home along in this get-up.”

Sam laughed. “Yeah, because you’re such a hot piece of ass that no man could resist a good grope.”

Dean had the brains to look insulted. “How very gender neutral of you, douchebag. Because only a dude would feel me up, huh? Trés PC.”

Sam leaned back just then and appraised. Gave Dean a straight up and down.

“You know what’s funny, though?” he said, thoughtful. “It kinda works for you.”

Dean went pink, his high white collar an unlikely frame. “Screw you, dude.”

“You are so fucking easy,” Sam snickered. “Seriously.”

He made his way back to the sidewalk and dove into in a flood of strollers and clueless people with cameras, and it wasn’t like Dean was watching him, exactly, but he couldn’t help but note the long-lash look Sam gave him right before he disappeared.

His brother was probably still fucking with him, probably just going for his goat, but still, that look, it shot him up warm inside, toasty. Made him forget about the frosty state of his ass. Made him think about Sam’s, thank you, instead.

Which, he thought absently, scanning the crowd. Would look pretty good in a kilt.

He resisted the urge to fondle his, uh, dirk and put his head right back in the game.

But it was all sorta downhill from there.

**

At least the ghost—that’s what it was, an everyday, pissed-off spirit—had the decency to show up on cue.

About halfway down the parade route, outside of Banana Republic, right in the heart of Ye Olde Town, Dean’s breath went frosty and his brain went red alert.

His head shot up, searching. Couldn’t see a damn thing over all those broad-shouldered dudes and their windbags. Couldn’t hear a thing, either, over honking that made him think of purple flowers and thorns. So he chucked off subtle and ducked out of the plaid, craning his neck up the street.

Got it.

He dodged the pipers and made straight for the band leader—head piper? tartan majorette? whatever—whose big stick thing was leaking ghosty all over his hands: fat clumps of black ecto and something whispy slipping out of the stick’s head.

Dean had a heartbeat or five to decide: reason? action? distraction?

He went with option B.

He saw Sam at the edge of the crowd a half-second before he dove banshee-like for the guy, who went down, startled, and everything would have been fine if only there weren’t quite so many cops.

They’d been lining the route all the way down to the river but Dean didn’t put two and four together until he was fucking surrounded.

He barely had the majorette guy on the ground and one hand on the haunted stick before the blue boys were on him, a big copper pile that would have been freaking hilarious if he weren’t the one at the bottom.

It. Sucked.

“Hey,” Sam said later, much, as they trudged down the now-empty streets. “At least it worked out ok in the end.”

“Says the guy who didn’t spent the last twelve hours in jail!” Dean huffed. He tripped over a gap in the sidewalk and cursed because holy _crap_ was he tired. And dirty. And cold.

“You did tackle that dude in the middle of the street,” Sam pointed out. “In front of like half the police force.”

Dean flapped his arms. “Dude! He had ghost goo coming out of his, like, giant stick!”

“His _baton_.”

“Whatever. And I’m not the one grabbed the baton and fucking made for the hills!”

“Somebody had to burn the thing, Dean, and put that stupid spirit to rest! Else your shitty Urlacher impression would have totally been in vain.”

“…and I think I ripped my skirt,” Dean mumbled.

“Oh for gods’ sake! For the last time. It’s a kilt!”

By the time they made the Regency Motel—a misleading moniker, to be sure—it was after midnight, Dean needed a shower, and so of course, all Sam wanted to do was fight.

“You realize we’re broke,” he bitched. “Your fucking bail just cleaned us out. Not to mention the awesome possibility that we’re back on law enforcement’s radar. So, hey, well done there, jerk.”

“Fuck you,” Dean snarled. “This has been a goddamn terrible day, ok? A no-good, terrible, horrible, very bad day. Ugh. So shut up.”

Sam was on him in a flash. “You shut up, dickweed!”

“Oh, real mature,” Dean said, or tried, because Sam shoved him, hard, and he fell ass first on the bed.

The smug little dick stood over him, gloating. So Dean did the only reasonable thing: kicked the kid in the knee and got him squawking. ‘Course, he didn’t count on Sequoia toppling straight over and landing the fuck in his face.

“Get off!” Dean barked, throwing elbows like crazy. “You stupid son of a bitch!”

And of course he was winning, had to be, because Sam totally cheated just then. Went all hot water purr and kissed Dean flush on the mouth.

Dean’s clever rejoinder—and it was, ok? that thing was rhetorical gold—melted like ice on Sam’s tongue, in the knowing shift of his hips, but—

“Ow!” Dean barked. “Fucking ow, Sam! Watch the sporran there, sport.”

Sam sat up, laughing, and shoved his hand between them. “Be still,” he said. “Ok? Shut your damn mouth and don’t move.”

Dean snorted, sort of, but it fell out more like a groan as he watched Sam undo buckles and unbutton, untie, until he was free of everything but his nice white shirt and his skirt.

Sam dipped back over him, smirking.

“There,” he said, his fingers tripping down Dean’s pleats and down and coming to rest on his knee. His bare knee. Because he was, uh.

Wearing a kilt.

And maybe it was weird wrong of that or maybe he was just fucking exhausted, over-sensitized from a long crappy day, but the brush of Sam’s nails on his kneecap—just that—made him gasp. In a way he usually reserved for Sam’s mouth on his dick.

Which Sam, the giant bastard, loved. Dean could tell.

The way he was rocking into Dean’s thigh? Pretty much a dead giveaway.

Sam arched his back so he could look down Dean’s body, it seemed like, then swept his eyes up to Dean’s face.

“It works for you,” he rumbled. “I don’t know why. But it does.”

“Yeah?” Dean breathed, arching his neck for a kiss.

“Mmm,” Sam said. Totally ignoring him. “Been thinking about it all day. Getting you laid out like this. Touching you”—another soft scratch—”like this. Seeing your face while I did it.”

He cupped Dean’s whole knee in his palm and it was fantastic and Dean couldn’t help it: he groaned long loud low and dirty. Closed his eyes and let it all come out of his mouth.

“Sam, c’mon, baby, please.”

“Please what?” Sam huffed against his throat, his hand sneaking slow—way the fuck too—up the curve of Dean’s shaking thigh.

“Please whatever,” Dean panted, “please kiss me, or fuck, suck my cock! Damn it, come on, Sam, god, won’t you just do something already, christ—!”

He felt Sam’s mouth curving under his chin, sliding over to his ear.

“Well. Ok. Since you asked me so pretty. So nice.”

Dean tried to swallow or nod or something but Sam’s hand was under his kilt and he was moaning into Dean’s mouth and all Dean could think of was:

Yes.

He may have said that once or twice a thousand as Sam screeched right past subtle into ripping as he tore off Dean’s boxers, got his fist around Dean’s dick. He pressed little kisses into Dean’s mouth and stroked him straight up into the plaid.

It was scratchy. Kinda weird. Amazing.

And when Sam had him sufficiently stupid, on his way to speaking Kryptonian, he bit Dean’s lip and dropped off the bed. Fell to his knees and yanked Dean right to the edge, glinting and growling and generally making a beautiful ass of himself, especially when he shoved the kilt up Dean’s thighs, pinned it to his hips and hissed: “Hold it.”

It took Dean a second, and a pointed fucking glare, but he got it, got two fists full of his plaid and yeah, he held it, held himself freaking open as Sam’s hands dropped away, and that was nine kinds of scary but Sam’s lips on his knees were soothing, almost sweet, at least until he made a Kraken-like noise and went straight for Dean’s happy dick.

Sam’s hands were inside his thighs, squeezing, and his tongue his teeth everything inside his fucking gorgeous mouth did its best to make Dean crazy. And Sam kept darting these little looks at him, which was not a Sam thing at all; always kept his eyes on the prize, but this time, it was like he couldn’t help himself, like he just had to see what Dean was doing or feeling or some shit, and Dean liked seeing that, too, being seen, whenever Sam caught his eye, and he got hot and shivery—

And then Sam pulled off, the motherfucking son of a—!

“Oh holy fuck, Dean,” he gasped, his eyes like fireflies. “Would you fucking come already? _Please_ , jesus, need you to—”

Dean’s hips pitched up and he lost it, lost all communication with the world for a second as he shuddered and shot hot and wet on Sam’s face.

Sam was on him in a flash. Knocked Dean back and down and helpfully unzipped his own fly. Dean got a hand on his face, three fingers on his cock, and Sam did the rest: pumped hungry through his own fist as they kissed, Dean’s come sweet slicking their lips.

“C’mon, baby,” Dean cooed, locking his bare legs around Sam’s hips. “Let me have it. Let me see it, sweetheart. Wanna feel you come on me, Sammy, on me, huh? All over.”

Sam gasped and groaned and came with a soft little shout, a shuddered remix of love and Dean’s name.

The kilt, for all its awesome, was a little less sexy when sweaty and covered in come. Itchier, too.

Sam sat up sleepy lion and watched Dean slide out of the thing. His face was halfway between grin and goddamn and Dean definitely saw that as a win.

“Got a thing for boys in skirts, huh?” he said later, when they were both lost in the sheets.

“Meh,” Sam sighed, his breath wet on Dean’s neck. “Far as I’m concerned, there’s just one.”

Silence.

“That’s you, asshat.”

“I know that, Sam! Jesus. What do you want? A thank-you note?”

Sam slapped his ass then, which was just rude.

“Pardon me for expecting some sort of verbal response,” he huffed. “I forget that you consider heavy breathing your second language.”

Dean twisted around and shoved Sasquatch into the pillows. Dipped his head and kissed his brother right.

“Ok?” he said, breathless. “You happy now?”

He could feel Sam’s smile ghosting his cheek in the dark.

“As happy as I can be,” he purred, “until you’re back in that sweet little skirt.”

Dean smacked him. “It’s a kilt, asshole!”

Sam laughed and rolled over. “Yeah, yeah,” he said, pulling Dean into his arms. “I know.”

Dean dreamed of purple flowers and thorns and Sam’s body spread out in the heather, plaid shoved up over his hips.

Bad day. Good dreams. Good night.

**Author's Note:**

> Unrepentant PWP via DarkCaustic's suggestion that Dean would look hot in a kilt.


End file.
